Separation
by Random Phantom
Summary: Following their attendance at the scene of a murder, Lewis is abducted - Morse must find him before it's too late.
1. Chapter 1

"Get rid of them!"

The words were hissed, a harsh whisper, and the second man perceived the anger and fear in eyes of the first.

"I can't! It's not that easy," he whispered, urgently, "Look, just hide yourself, will you? With any luck they won't bother with a thorough search – don't come out until they've gone."

"I'll bloody kill you if they find me," the first man growled, "just get them out of here as soon as you can. God forbid they should find me here, of all places!"

"There's not much I can do," the second man replied, "oh, great, here comes the ambulance – you'd better make yourself scarce!"

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Detective Chief Inspector Morse stood with his hands on hips, lips pursed and brow furrowed, as a he stared at the scene before him. The cold night was lit by the flashing blue lights of the ambulance surrounded by response cars. He shook his head slowly, ignoring the curious stares of the neighbours, as he stared up at the terraced house. Around him, uniformed officers held the small crowd of onlookers at bay; many sleepy-eyed in nightgowns and pyjamas, with a few members of the local press hovering around in hopes of a story. Morse watched as the body was brought from the house; multiple camera flashes added a lightning effect to the darkness, and Morse winced at the vulgarity at their openly morbid delight in the sad sight of a wrapped corpse of a young student being carried from the house. He continued to watch as Detective Sergeant Lewis followed the paramedics down the steps from the front door. Behind Lewis, two uniformed officers brought out a young man in handcuffs, and bundled him into the back of a waiting car. Lewis nodded to the officers, and crossed the small yard to join Morse on the pavement.

"Anything to add?" Morse asked, choosing not to elaborate on the question.

"No sir," Lewis shook his head, glancing back at house, "seems pretty straightforward to me. Two students, Michael Tawny and Steven Bates, got into an argument over drugs, both high as kites, Tawny grabs the nearest thing to hand – a kitchen knife – and kills Bates. He called the police out of remorse as soon as he comes down from the high. He says he remembers the whole thing."

Morse mulled over the situation for a moment, watching as two of the three response cars pulled away, already called off to other incidents requiring attention. A third car remained with the lights off and the engine silent, as the two remaining officers spoke to the neighbours and other observers.

"Isn't that unusual for a drugs trip?" Morse asked, frowning as the ambulance struggled to pull away through the crowd of neighbours and reporters, "To remember everything, I mean?"

"I wouldn't know, sir," Lewis replied, with a slight smile and a shrug, "You'd have to ask Dr Robson."

"Believe me, Lewis, I will," Morse replied, "Come on, let's go and interview the neighbours…"

Morse turned and began to walk away, and then stopped, realising that Lewis wasn't following him. He turned back, to see the Sergeant staring up at the house, a slightly quizzical look on his face.

"Lewis?" Morse prompted, impatiently.

"Sorry, sir," Lewis replied, "I thought… I thought I saw someone in the house."

"A witness?" Morse asked, quickly, and slightly irritated, "I thought you said there was no-one else in the house?"

"There wasn't, according to Tawny," Lewis replied, "and Derringer – one of the uniforms – he searched the house… perhaps I should check again, sir?"

Morse glanced across at Lewis appraisingly. The Sergeant was still staring up at the house, at one of the top bedroom windows. Though he rarely said it out loud – and even more rarely in front of Lewis – he trusted his Sergeant, even if he was not convinced there had been someone at the window. He took a deep breath, and then nodded.

"Derringer couldn't find the haystack, let alone the proverbial needle," he said, at last, "alright, let's check the place out once more – leave the neighbours to the uniforms. Then we can go for a well deserved pint I think."

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Derringer stared up at the house, frowning slightly as he watched Morse and Lewis head inside.

"What are they doing?" he asked his partner, Bailey.

"Who knows?" the other man shrugged, "maybe Morse has got one of his tricks up his sleeve."

Derringer frowned again, and Bailey laughed.

"Cheer up – you made a thorough search, didn't you? Nothing to worry about."

Bailey turned his back, and therefore did not see the horrified look that crossed his partner's face.

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Lewis followed Morse up the steps and into the house. He waited, patiently, as Morse paused in the hall – beyond the door to his right, the living room. At the end of the corridor was the kitchen – the scene of the crime. To his left were the stairs up to the two small bedrooms and the bathroom.

"I thought I saw someone in the front bedroom, sir," Lewis said, in a low voice.

"Well, let's go and check it out, then," Morse responded, gesturing towards the stairs.

Lewis reached for the banister and began to climb the stairs. Morse followed, quietly glancing into the bathroom and back bedroom as Lewis wandered into the front room.

"Anything?" Morse enquired, stepping into the front room.

"Nah, nothing," Lewis shook his head and straightened his tie, "Sorry, sir – must be seeing things."

"Well, have you checked under the bed?" Morse said, half-jokingly as he crossed to the window and peered outside, "No net curtains – what exactly did you see?"

"Looked like a man, sir," Lewis replied, "standing just about where you are – though maybe a little more to you right…"

Morse glanced to his right, and saw only an old wardrobe with clothes piled up to the side of it. He winced, and recalled the particular neatness of his own student digs. He had long since learned that he was the exception, not the rule, and that fact saddened him as often as it made him glad.

Morse was still deep in thought when, without warning, the wardrobe door flew open. He heard Lewis give a shout of warning, as he fell backwards under the impact. As he hit the floor, Morse saw a figure leap across the bed towards the door.

"Lewis! Stop him!" Morse shouted, struggling to get to his feet.

Cursing himself, Morse managed to get upright, stumbled past the bed and fell against the door frame. For a split second, he saw Lewis in the hall, wrestling with a figure dressed in denim jeans and a black leather jacket. The figure struck out, and Morse heard Lewis cry out as he fell backwards. Morse realised with cold horror that the only thing behind his Sergeant was the stairs. Morse lunged forwards and grabbed the banister as both Lewis and the assailant fell through the air and hit the stairs, hard. Morse watched, open-mouthed, as they both tumbled to the ground floor, before the assailant leapt to his feet and disappeared.

"Lewis!"

Morse managed to pull himself together and get over his shock, as he bounded down the stairs, bellowing for Derringer and Bailey, the uniformed officers outside. Bailey appeared first and Morse swung his hand in a motion of barely controlled fury towards the kitchen.

"There was someone in the house!" he snapped, "Get after the bastard! Well, go on – move!"

Bailey nodded and took off as Derringer appeared.

"You! I want a word with you later!" Morse snarled, "Get out there, call an ambulance and then search the house and grounds – properly this time!"

"Sir," Derringer dived back through the door, sprinting off towards the car.

Morse reached the bottom of the stairs and dropped to he knees. Lewis lay on his back, eyes closed, not moving. There was a deep cut on his forehead, and blood marred the collar of his white shirt.

"Lewis? Come on, man, wake up!"

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Derringer ran around to the back of the house. Bailey was standing out in the back yard, glancing around desperately.

"Which way did he go?" Bailey yelled, frustrated.

"I… I don't know – maybe he cut through that passage down to the front!" Derringer pointed.

Bailey sprinted off, and Derringer took a deep breath, running his hands through his hair. He walked deeper into the small garden, surrounded as it was by fences and shrubs. He glanced over his shoulder, convinced that Bailey was gone.

"Where are you, you stupid bastard?" he hissed.

"Right here," growled a voice by his ear, "and show some bloody respect. You owe me."

"Right now you're in a hell of a lot of trouble," Derringer shot back, "you get caught here and linked up with this mess you could go away for a long time – add to that assaulting a police officer – you're in for it, mate, and no mistake."

"Is he dead?" there was no concern or remorse in the voice, merely curiosity.

"No, thank God, he's not," Derringer replied, glancing around the garden, warily.

"Who is he?"

"What does that matter to you?" Derringer snapped.

"He saw my face! I'm damn sure of it. Now tell me his name – and his address."

"What…? No, you can't be serious!"

"Tell me his name and his address," growled the menacing voice, "he's seen my face. He can identify me, and there's no way in hell I'm going back to prison."

"You can't," Derringer's voice took on a pleading tone, "not Sergeant Lewis – he's one of the good guys!"

"No such thing as a good cop," the voice replied, "not even you, you slimy little bastard. Now give me a name, and address – or it's your pretty little wife who'll pay."

Derringer closed his eyes, knowing this man and knowing what he was capable of.

"I don't know the address," he admitted, "but his name's Sergeant Lewis. Robbie Lewis. I don't know where he lives."

Derringer froze in fear as he felt warm breath on his ear, the voice filled with cold malice.

"Find out…now."

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Worried and angry at the same time, Morse was at a loss as to what to do. He checked for a pulse and was glad to find one, at least. He loosened Lewis's tie, and then reached the end of his first aid skills. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, and then fetched a cushion from the living room. He lifted Lewis's head carefully and slid the cushion underneath, and was rewarded with a slight groan. Morse lifted his hand away and stared at the blood on his fingertips with sick revulsion. Lewis groaned again, and his hand twitched feebly.

"Come on, Robbie, wake up," Morse muttered, and then glanced up as Derringer reappeared.

"Ambulance is on the way, sir," he reported, quickly, "no sign of an intruder in the grounds."

Morse simply glowered at Derringer for a moment, as the young copper fretted nervously, unable to meet his gaze.

"I'll be having a word with you later," Morse growled, eventually, "and I have no doubt the Chief Super will want a word as well. And I doubt it will be a quiet one."

"Yes sir," Derringer mumbled, glancing over his shoulder, "Sir, the Sarge's car – do you want me to have it driven back to his house?"

Morse paused, then checked Lewis's jacket pocket and found his keys. He separated the car keys from the house keys, and tossed them over, as he told Derringer the address.

"And be careful with it!" Morse snapped.

"Yes sir," Derringer said, quickly, and vanished through the door.

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Morse took a deep breath, and sat down on the stairs. He tried, desperately, to recall some useful description about the assailant, but he could not remember having seen the man's face…man? Yes, he was convinced it was a man – the build, and the way he had moved… definitely a man. Morse sighed in disappointment in himself – all he could recollect was a blue jeans, black jacket and dark hair description, which would be of little use. Outside, he heard the plaintive wail of a siren and his head snapped up. He stood up, slowly, as the paramedics entered, along with a flustered PC Derringer.

"What happened?" one of the medics asked, crouching down as he pulled on some gloves.

"He was attacked and pushed down the stairs," Morse replied, dismissing all of the sarcastic reactions that occurred to him in favour of a simple statement of fact.

Derringer winced, mumbled something under his breath and slipped out of the front door again. One of the medics applied a gauze pad to the gash on Lewis's head, as the Sergeant winced and groaned, stirring slightly.

"Let's get him in the ambulance."

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"Come on," Derringer hissed, "I've got the keys to his car and the address to drive it to. Meet me in the next street and I'll give you a lift."

"That could make you an accessory, you know," sneered the voice.

"To what? What are you planning to do?" Derringer asked, fearfully, "You… you were just going to threaten him a bit, right?"

"You soft-hearted faggot," the other man spat, "he's seen my face! If he identifies me I'm done for. I've got to make sure he stays quiet – and doesn't get found."

Derringer, if possible, went even whiter.

"Just… do me a favour," he asked, "Lewis… he's got a wife and kids. Don't hurt them."

"No promises," snarled the voice, "now get us out of here. I'm off before one of those other bastards catches us out here. See you in the next street – and don't chicken, or it'll be you I come after next!"


	2. Chapter 2

Morse chose to follow the ambulance in his distinctive Jaguar. He parked it haphazardly across two parking bays, and jogged over to the Accident and Emergency entrance as the stretcher was unloaded from the ambulance. He followed it, ignoring the protests of the nurses as it was whisked off to a side ward and Lewis lifted quickly onto the bed. A nurse appeared, and Morse produced his ID silently. She blinked at it in surprise.

"A doctor will be along in a minute," she said, quickly, and then disappeared, presumably to fetch the said doctor.

Morse grimaced as she left, and glanced over his shoulder at the bed. Lewis stirred, and Morse crossed over to him as the younger man's eyes flickered open slowly. Lewis groaned softly, raising a hand to touch the makeshift bandage on his head. His eyes flicked around the room in confusion, and came to rest on Morse.

"It's about time you woke up," Morse commented, softening the words with a slight smile, "and before you ask the obvious question, you're in hospital."

"I'd gathered that, sir," Lewis replied, weakly, "What happened?"

"Derringer was a bloody idiot, that's what happened."

"Derringer did this?"

"No, Lewis," Morse sighed, with a despairing tone, before he caught the half-smile on his Sergeant's face.

Morse sighed again, and allowed himself a small smile as he pulled up a chair.

"How's the head?" he asked, politely.

"Bloody sore, sir," Lewis tried to sit up, but let out an involuntary yelp of pain that made Morse jump slightly.

"Good God, man, what on Earth's the matter?" he demanded.

Lewis grimaced as he lay back down, gingerly nursing what Morse thought to be some very painful bruises.

"Sorry, sir," Lewis apologised, "must be more sore than I thought."

"Sorer," Morse corrected him, absently, "Lewis, there was a man hiding in the wardrobe – at least, I think it was a man. I didn't see his face, though – did you get a look at him?"

Lewis paused for a moment, and then gave a small shake of his head that made him wince again.

"Nothing concrete, sir," he replied, "blue jeans, leather jacket, white trainers… dark hair; black, I think. Cut quite short – don't remember much else. Although…"

"Although what?" Morse prompted, impatiently.

"When he hit me," Lewis gingerly rubbed the bruise that was slowly emerging on his jaw, "I saw him raise his fist… he had a scar across the knuckles of his right hand. That's all I remember, sir."

"Don't worry, Lewis, it's more than I could remember," Morse sighed, and glanced up as the doctor and nurse re-entered, "Ah. I'll be outside if you want me."

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Some time later, Morse, dozing in an uncomfortable plastic chair, awoke to a gentle nudge and the tantalizing smell of coffee. He reached out automatically and took the plastic cup, and then he realised who it was.

"Lewis!"

"Sorry to wake you, sir," Lewis replied, with a small smile, "thought you might need a coffee. Thanks for waiting for me."

"You look terrible," Morse commented, bluntly, taking a mouthful of coffee, "What's the diagnosis?"

"Oh, not too terrible, sir," Lewis replied, with what Morse perceived to be forced cheerfulness, "bit of a knock on the head and a couple of cracked ribs – nothing serious. I've been discharged with some painkillers."

"Yes, well," Morse pursed his lips and surveyed his Sergeant, "come on. Let's get you home."

Morse stood up and finished his coffee, tossing the cup in the bin, before he led the way out to the car. He glanced up at the dark sky, and realised it must be well past midnight and into the early hours of morning. He unlocked the car, and dropped into the driver's seat, as Lewis gingerly lowered himself into the passenger side. Morse started up the engine, and glanced across at Lewis, noting his pale face and pained expression.

"I dread to think what your wife is going to say when she sees the state of you," Morse remarked, as he reversed out of the parking space.

"Aye, our Val would go spare if she saw this," Lewis sighed, ruefully touching the bandage wrapped around his head, "luckily, she's in Gateshead with the kids, visiting her mum – got the place to myself for the week."

"The bruises might be gone by then," Morse quipped, as he drove, "and, seeing as we've no active cases at the moment, you've got the next two days off."

"Thank you, sir," Lewis replied, almost managing to conceal his surprise.

Morse made no reply, and they drove on in silence, until they arrived at Lewis's family home. Morse noticed Lewis's car parked slightly haphazardly, half on the kerb, and made a mental note to have a word with CSI Strange about Derringer. A loud word – perhaps with a bit of arm waving and expressions along the lines of 'incompetent' and 'liability'.

"Thanks for the lift, sir," Lewis said, tiredly, interrupting Morse's train of thought, "much appreciated."

"Don't dwell on it," Morse grunted, "go on, get inside and get some rest – you look done in."

"Aye, sir," Lewis nodded, "Why don't you drop by for a drink tomorrow, if you're free?"

"I might just do that," Morse replied, with a nod, as Lewis opened the car door.

Morse glanced up at the dark house, and then suddenly grabbed Lewis's arm. The Sergeant gasped, and Morse raised his free hand to silence any protest.

"Lewis, I thought you said your wife was in Gateshead?" he murmured, still staring up at the house.

"Aye, she is – I dropped her and the kids off at the train station this morning," Lewis replied, with a slight frown of confusion, "Why?"

"Well, she's not in the habit of wondering around the house in the early hours with a flashlight, is she?"

Lewis stared at Morse in confusion, and then horror.

"There's someone in the house?"

Morse caught the slight note of anger, and tightened his grip on Lewis's arm.

"You're in no fit state to go charging in there to confront an intruder," Morse cautioned him, "Ground floor. Come on. We'll check it out."

Lewis nodded slowly, and the two of them climbed out of the car. The house stood in darkness as the dawn reluctantly broke over the horizon, and Morse shivered in the cold, January air. Lewis walked slowly up to the front door, taking his keys from his pocket and carefully unlocking the front door. He eased the door open, and crept into the house. Morse followed, warily, glancing around. He caught Lewis's eye, and then glanced around. Something did not feel right…

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"Police!" Morse announced in a loud voice, "Anybody home?"

Silence was the only response. Then, suddenly, a crash from the back of the house – before Morse could react; Lewis dived through the door into the kitchen and was gone. Morse took after him, but he needn't have worried. He found Lewis leaning against the door frame, gasping and peering into the back garden.

"Bastard," Lewis groaned, through gritted teeth, one hand wrapped around his injured ribs, the other hanging onto the door frame, "Got out the back door."

"Did you see anything?"

"Same guy as earlier, I'm sure of it," Lewis turned to look at Morse, pain and fear in his eyes, "how the hell could he know where I live?"

"I… I don't know," Morse admitted, "but we'll find him, Lewis."

"I'd better get the locks changed," Lewis said, fretfully, "he must've broken in through the back door – thank God our Val and the kids weren't in…"

"Lewis," Morse held up his hand to stem the flow, "I'm sure it's nothing – it might not even be the same man. Leather jackets and jeans are common in Oxford. Still, we'll send around a couple of uniforms, get the place straightened up – your wife needn't know anything ever happened."

"Aye…" Lewis paused a moment and stared pensively out into the garden, "Aye, sir, maybe you're right…"

"Come on," Morse gestured, "you can stay at…"

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Morse got no further. He saw Lewis turn to face him, curious at the sudden end to the sentence. Morse raised his hands slowly, as from the corner of his eye he saw the black barrel of a silencer as it moved in line with his temple. Lewis, white-faced, made no move as he could only stand by and watch.

"The oldest trick in the book…" breathed a voice, in Morse's ear, "and you stupid bastards fell for it twice. I was hiding behind the door."

"Who are you?" Morse demanded, trying to turn his head to look at his captor.

The muzzle of the gun was pressed harder into his head, forcing him to keep facing forwards. He met Lewis's worried gaze, and silently willed his Sergeant not to make any rash moves.

"I am no concern of yours, Mr Morse," the voice growled, harshly, "my issue is with your Sergeant. After all, he saw my face…"

"No," Lewis shook his head, and Morse caught the genuine feeling in his voice as his accent thickened, "No, I didn't see anything. Just… just put the gun down, you can walk away from here, and we'll be none the wiser."

"I heard you say it… 'Same guy as earlier'… your own words, Sergeant… But away with you, Mr Morse… it's the Sergeant I came for."

Morse saw the gun move but there was no time to make a move. He felt the heavy crack as it came down on the back of his head, and then everything went dark.

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	3. Chapter 3

Morse awoke slowly. For a long moment, he was confused as to why he was lying on a cold, hard floor. Then he remembered, and with a groan forced himself to his knees. Cupping one hand to the back of his head, he winced as he found a tender bruise crusted with dry blood. Dry… he peered up, and realised that the winter sunlight was streaming in through the windows.

"Good grief," Morse staggered upright, and fell against the work top, wondering how long he had been unconscious.

Taking a deep breath, he managed to steady himself, and headed towards the front door, stunned by the sudden turn of events. Thankfully, his prized Jaguar was still parked in front of the house, but Lewis's car was nowhere to be seen. Morse stepped forwards, and his foot caught on something – a set of keys. Leaning down and picking them up, he realised with strangely sad feeling that they were Lewis's house keys. He locked the front door behind him, and slipped the keys into his pocket. Heading over to the Jag, he all but collapsed into the driver's seat, his head pounding. He fumbled for the radio, and managed to switch it on, getting through to the switchboard.

"It's Morse… never mind where the hell I've been! I want an APB out on Sergeant Lewis's car… no, you idiot, it's been stolen – and Lewis with it! No, I am not drunk… listen, who is this? I'll have you up before the Chief Super if you're not careful! Now get to it!"

Wincing at the pain in his head, Morse replaced the radio, and started up the car. For a moment, he sat there with the engine running, at a loss as to where to go. All he knew was that Lewis had been abducted, in his own car, and that he, Morse, had been unconscious for several hours during which time anything could have happened to his Sergeant. With a growl, Morse revved the engine, put his foot down, and sped off towards the police station. He needed coffee, scotch, painkillers and then some uniforms to get a search underway.

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Lewis had long since gone past the point of fear, and now just felt indignant at the fact that he was a prisoner in the boot of his own car. His hands were fastened behind his back with cable ties that bit cruelly into his wrists, and he'd been gagged with his own tie. His head and ribs tortured him, but not so much as the overwhelming feeling of helplessness – the way he had stood by as the man – whoever he was – had assaulted Chief Inspector Morse, and the gut-wrenching feeling that he might die without ever having the chance to say goodbye to Val and the kids. He groaned in pain as the car bounced over a pothole or something in the road – time had lost all meaning and he had no idea how long he had been in the car – his captor had knocked him out before putting him in the boot of the car, and Lewis wondered if his neighbours, usually so nosy about comings and goings in the street, would have seen anything.

There was precious little space around him, and pain and cramp made Lewis distinctly uncomfortable. He inched around, trying to find something that could be used as a weapon, or otherwise to free himself, but there was nothing in reach. Eventually, the car came to a halt, and the engine died. Lewis froze, wondering what to expect next. He heard the door slam shut, and there were footsteps as the man came around the side of the car. Lewis braced himself, and the click as the boot opened was probably one of the most chilling sounds he had ever heard. He squinted in the sudden brightness of the early-morning sun, and swallowed hard as it glinted off the black barrel of the gun.

"I'm going to pull you out of there," said a cold, hard voice, "you'll either get out and walk, doing exactly as I tell you, or I'll shoot you and dump your body where it'll never be found."

Lewis nodded, slowly, and tried to suppress a gasp of pain as the man pulled him from the car. He staggered slightly, but the man grabbed his shoulder and forced him forwards. Lewis glanced around wildly, trying to figure out where he was, and realised, with a shock, that they were on the same estate where they'd attended the stabbing the previous night – barely two streets away from the house. At least he was still in Oxford, and the thought gave him hope. He did not have time to dwell on it, however, as his captor roughly pushed him through a gate and down some stone steps into a basement flat below one of the houses, commonly let to students. Lewis found himself pushed up against a stone wall, as his captor unlocked the basement door and then forcefully shoved him inside.

Lewis got the impression of a small, neat but dark flat, no distinguishing features, but he had little time to look around. He tried to get a good look at his captor, but it was too dark and the man stayed behind him as he pushed him through to the kitchen.

"My own special adaptation," the man said, with grim satisfaction, "I use it to stash goods, but, for now, I'll have to stash you – until I've got the means to be rid of you. Don't want a body rotting in my cellar and stinking the place out."

Lewis, still bound and gagged, was unable to protest as he was forced to his knees. His captor stepped in front of him, gun still in hand, pointed unwaveringly at Lewis.

"Don't move," growled the man, as Lewis stared up at him, "just because I'm not ready to kill you yet doesn't mean I won't do it in an instant anyway."

Lewis gave a single slow, small nod of acknowledgement, and watched as the man pulled back a rug over the kitchen floor, revealing the bare floorboards beneath. He then prised his fingers into a small gap, and pulled open a trap door. Lewis stared at his captor's face, committing the description to memory - Caucasian male, late twenties, approximately six feet tall, slim, muscular build, blue close set eyes, black cropped hair, with a single gold earring in his left ear. He then stared down into the dark cellar, and shivered involuntarily.

His captor reached forwards and grabbed Lewis by the shoulder. Lewis struggled feebly, but the threat of the gun at his temple was an overwhelming incentive to comply. He found himself at the top of a ladder that led straight down into darkness, and his struggles increased.

"You're going down there – whether you like it or not!"

Lewis felt the kick to the back of his legs, and he had no time or breath to cry out as he fell into the cold darkness. The trapdoor closed behind him with all the finality of a lid slamming shut on a coffin, and then there was silence.

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Morse sat and glowered at his superior officer. He had come into the station, raged at the desk sergeant, then ranted at a detective constable who had offered him some coffee, and finally shouted his rage and frustration at Strange, who had merely let him go on until he was spent. Then, a WPC had come in and cleaned up his head wound, and now he just sat glaring at Strange.

"We should be out doing something," he growled, at last, over the top of the glass of Scotch Strange had given him once he'd stopped shouting.

"Such as?" Strange prompted.

"Looking for Lewis, of course!" Morse's voice began to rise again, but exhaustion and headache won out and he fell back in his seat, still nursing his drink.

"Look, we've got the APB out on his car and uniforms are interviewing all of his neighbours – there's not much more we can do," Strange replied, patiently, knowing full well that Morse was as aware of this fact as the next man, "I'm worried too – damn worried. It's a hell of a situation, Morse, and I need you focussed. We've got to prepare for the worst…"

"No," Morse cut him off, his voice filled with cold fury, "don't say it. He's alive and I… _we_ are going to find him."

"God forbid we should end up with a hostage situation," Strange sighed, after a long moment of silence, "has his wife been contacted?"

"No," Morse replied, quietly, leaning back in the chair, "we don't have a contact number. Besides, I doubt she thinks much of me in any event – I'm not breaking bad news to the poor woman."

"If anyone's going to break any bad news, it will be me," Strange promised, straightening up slightly and squaring his shoulders, "now – you look shattered, Morse. Go home and get some sleep – you're no use to anyone in this state, least of all Lewis. Go on – we'll call you the minute we hear anything."

Morse nodded and stood up, just as there was a loud, frantic knocking on the door, and the desk sergeant burst in.

"Sorry to interrupt, sir," he said, breathlessly, "patrol, sir – they've found his – Sergeant Lewis – they've found his car, sir – waiting for you."

Without a backward glance at Strange, Morse abandoned his empty glass on the corner of the desk and took off down the corridor after the sergeant. Strange sighed, sat down, poured himself another drink and hoped for a happy ending.

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The cellar was cold, dark and slightly damp. To call it a cellar was to give it more credit than it was due – it was a small hole dug into the foundations of the house, barely five feet square – not long enough to lie down or stand up straight in. Lewis hand landed, hard, on the concrete foundation floor, and the pain made him groan as he tried to move. His head looped in sickening surges as his ribs and cramped muscles screamed in protest. By an immense effort he managed to sit up against one of the rough brick walls. His fingers explored the wall, and he found a sharp corner of brick sticking out. He set to work, rubbing the thin but strong plastic cable tie against the rough brick. Despite the cold, sweat prickled on his brow as he worked. It felt like hours, but eventually, the plastic snapped, and Lewis pulled the tie from his mouth and flung it to one side. Rubbing his sore wrists and gasping for breath, Lewis tried to take stock of his surroundings. It was very dark in the cellar, but enough light seeped through the kitchen floorboards to let him see that the room was entirely bare, aside from the ladder. He forced himself to stand, groaning at the pain in his side from the broken ribs, and pushed against the trapdoor. He strained against it but it would not budge – something heavy had obviously been placed on top of it.

With a despairing groan, Lewis collapsed back on the floor, shivering. He recalled, vaguely, having left his jacket in Morse's car, and he regretted it now. With little else to do, he lay on his side, curled up to fit in the small space, and, arms wrapped around himself, he tried to keep warm.

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Morse leapt into his car, and was about to rev up the engine when he saw the dark navy-blue suit jacket on the passenger seat. Lewis's jacket – he'd been carrying it when they left the hospital and had left it in the car… Morse realised how long it had been since he'd properly eaten, or slept, and then berated himself for thinking of his own comfort when his Sergeant was… well, missing. He stamped on the accelerator and took off out of the car park.

Even taking into account Oxford traffic, he made it in record time. The Jag screeched to a halt outside the garage, and he climbed out quickly. Two uniforms were already there, and both straightened up self-consciously when they saw Morse arrive. Morse ignored them, and crossed straight over to the silvery grey Ford that he knew almost as well as his own car.

"Well?" he demanded, looking at the uniforms.

"Garage owner called it in, sir," one of them reported, quickly, "came out to talk to a lady customer and found it parked on the forecourt. He thought it might have been stolen and then dumped – hidden in plain sight with the used cars. He knew it wasn't his because there's no price sticker in it, see – and the keys were still in the ignition. He didn't see who left it."

"And you've not touched anything?"

"No sir. Forensics is on the way."

"Good," Morse frowned, as he walked around the car, doing a visual inspection.

There did not seem to be any damage, and no sign of foul play, however… Morse's eyes lingered on the boot, and he felt a vague swell of nausea as he considered what it might contain. He swallowed the feeling and stood back as the forensics crew arrived, also in record time. In the case of a missing police officer, no expense would be spared and no stone unturned – Morse would see to that personally.

Minutes stretched into over an hour as Morse grew more and more irritable. Eventually, one of the white-clad forensics officers waved to give him the all clear.

"We found a few black hairs on the front seat," the man reported, quickly, "no prints – looks like the interior was wiped clean, or your guy was wearing gloves. We're ready to open the trunk."

"Do it," Morse said, bluntly.

Morse forced himself to watch as the scene of crimes officer carefully selected the correct key from the set recovered from inside the car, and opened the boot. Morse could not prevent the relieved sigh when he saw that it was empty. However, his brow furrowed again as he looked closer.

"Is that blood?" he asked, pointing to a stain on the carpet.

"Could be, sir," came the reply, too cheerful for Morse's liking, "I can tell you more once we've analysed it. If it is blood, it's only a small amount – not a fatal loss."

Morse was not mollified, but he let the man's patronising tone pass him by.

"Get a rush on the results," Morse growled, and pointed to the uniforms, "you two! Any cars stolen from the lot?"

"None, sir," the first replied, smoothly, "we checked with the owner."

"Then whoever abandoned this either walked, hitch hiked, or got the bus or a taxi back to wherever he came from," Morse concluded, "canvas the area and circulate the description we've got of the suspect – find out if anyone saw the bastard and the first person you tell is me, got that?"

"Yes, sir!"

Feeling distinctly at a loss, Morse got back into the car and drove off. His mood was not improved when all he saw in the rear view mirror was two uniforms and a scene of crimes officer staring after him. With little else to do and knowing that all he could do was play the waiting game, Morse headed back towards the station.


	4. Chapter 4

In the dim light of the cellar, Lewis peered at his watch. He had been trying to keep track of time but it kept slipping away as he drifted in and out of consciousness. It was late afternoon and there had not been sight or sound of his captor since he had been pushed into the cold cell.

He knew that it was late afternoon, but it felt like he'd been locked up for an eternity. He was tired, cold, and thirsty, but he had already come to the conclusion that his captor had no intention of keeping him alive for any longer than necessary, which led him to wonder why he was still alive right now. The thought was not a comforting one.

Lewis flinched involuntarily at the sound of the front door as it opened and closed. He listened with dread as footsteps drew closer. He saw the shadow through the cracks in the floorboard, and heard a voice talking, and he realised that there were two people above him.

"What the hell are you playing at, Jimmy?" said the first voice, oddly familiar, and pleading in tone, "You can't keep him here, surely?"

"Why not?" the voice of his captor – Jimmy – was indifferent and casual, "The place has never been searched before. I bet these Oxford snobs don't even know I'm out. Part of my bargaining was that my release was never made public."

"Only so the mates you grassed on wouldn't find you," the other voice shot back, panicked and angry, "but if you kill a copper – bloody hell, Jimmy, especially this copper – and they catch you, you'll never see the light of day."

"He's just a copper," sneered Jimmy, "you're all the same, you bastards."

Lewis shifted, listening intently. He knew the first voice – and it stung him to realise that it could be a colleague. He wanted to scream and curse at the man for doing nothing to help him, but he bit his lip and concentrated on trying to work out who it was above him.

"You're the bastard, Jimmy," the familiar voice sighed, sadly, "and I'm a bastard for going along with this."

"I think you'll find that you're the bastard," Jimmy hissed, menacingly, "mummy's little whore-son bastard – brother only by half, and half a man at that."

There was a long moment of silence, and Lewis stared up at the floorboards, but he could see nothing but light and shadow. There was a creak as one of the men moved, and Lewis froze at the slow scraping sound as something heavy was pushed across the floor. There was a click, and the trapdoor slowly lifted. The light was blindingly bright after the darkness, and Lewis threw his hand up to protect his eyes, desperately squinting to see what was going on.

"Oh my…" the familiar voice said, shocked, "you're not keeping him down there, are you?"

"You know what?" Jimmy said, with a tone that made Lewis recoil from the entrance instinctively, "you've become a liability, little brother. One I really can't stand any more…"

Lewis gasped and fell back against the wall, as there was a choked cry, and a figure fell backwards into the small pit, hitting the floor in front of him with a dull thump. Above him, Jimmy – whoever he was – laughed without humour.

"Take a good look, Sergeant," he mocked, "the same will happen to you when I get around to it."

Lewis caught the briefest of glances at the corpse on the floor, but the image was burned onto his mind in that moment as the trapdoor closed. Derringer - it was Derringer! And now, Lewis shared the cell with the young officer's body, his throat slashed, apparently by his own half-brother. Lewis backed into the corner, drew his knees up to his chest, and tried desperately to think of something positive as the darkness closed in on him.

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Morse sat in his office, staring pensively at the crossword on his desk. He'd finished it, of course, but it was a poor distraction from his furious thoughts. He knew Lewis could look after himself, but still… at the hands of that madman… every call that came through, Morse jumped, expecting some news… and hoping against all reason that it was good news. A knock at the door made him glance up.

"Sorry to bother you, sir," said the uniformed constable, "we've got a slight problem the duty sergeant thought you should be aware of."

"Well?" Morse demanded, "spit it out, man!"

"It's Derringer, sir," the constable replied, a little taken aback, "he's more than two hours late reporting in and we can't get in touch with him."

Morse opened his mouth to snap at the constable for bothering him with this, and then closed it again, slowly. He took a deep breath.

"Find out where he was the last time anyone heard from or saw him," Morse ordered, keeping his voice level, "get me details of his planned patrol route and get me a transcript of his last recorded check in. I want them now!"

"Sir!" the constable disappeared, and Morse fell back in his chair, deep in thought.

Derringer… he'd been at the house where the student was murdered. He was the idiot who couldn't conduct a thorough search, but just because he hadn't seen the assailant who had attacked Morse and Lewis did not mean that the man had not seen Derringer. He might have gone after the young patrol man…

"No," Morse mumbled under his breath.

That theory did not make sense. The man had hunted down Lewis because he thought Lewis had seen his face and could identify him. Derringer could not. He was no risk. All he had done was take Lewis's car home…

"Damn it!" Morse slammed his hand down on his desk.

He had missed the obvious question. How the hell had the man known where Lewis lived? Morse had been so caught up in events that he had not stopped to think things through. The man had somehow learned Lewis's address in enough time to get there, break in, and wait for them to arrive. How could he possibly have known the address? Morse scrubbed his hand through his hair. He could only think of one possible explanation – that the man had cornered Derringer with Lewis's car and forced him to drive him over to the house. Why, then, had he allowed Derringer to go free? If Derringer was indeed missing, this man was their only viable suspect. Why allow him to go free only to pick him up again later?

A feeling of dread crept over Morse, and then betrayal. After all, to an honest cop, there was nothing worse than a bent one…

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Light flooded into the cellar as the trapdoor lifted again, and Lewis winced at the brightness as he squinted upwards. He could clearly make out the muzzle of a gun pointed at him and the dark silhouette of the man who held it.

"Pick up that piece of shit," the man, Jimmy, ordered, gesturing to Derringer's body with the gun, before bringing it to bear on Lewis, "and then get up here, you bastard. And if I don't like so much as the way you blink, you're a dead man."

Lewis glanced at the corpse nearby, and then stood up slowly. He was tired, frozen, hungry and cramped, but still he managed to lift Derringer over his shoulder. Getting through the hatch presented some problems, but, eventually, he struggled through and fell to his knees.

"Get up!" Jimmy ordered, harshly, "get up, you bastard!"

He emphasised this with a kick for good measure that elicited a pained gasp from Lewis. Struggling to his feet, Lewis had no time to pull himself together as he was pushed towards the front door.

"Open the latch!"

Lewis did as he was bid, well aware that every action he took could be his last. He reached out with his free hand and opened the door. Given that he was carrying a dead body over his shoulder he should not have been surprised that it was dark out. Shakily, he climbed the steps from the basement flat. There was a car parked in front of him – a patrol car no less. He gaped at as it sat there with the boot already open.

"Get him in!" hissed Jimmy, pushing him forward.

The gun never wavered as Lewis placed his grisly load into the boot of the car. He prayed with all his might that someone – anyone – would come along and see them, but the whole street was in darkness and there was not a soul to be seen. Jimmy slammed the boot shut and grabbed Lewis by the shoulder. Lewis gasped as the barrel of the gun was slammed under his chin, forcing his head back. He closed his eyes. Suddenly, however, the gun was pulled away, and Jimmy seized his arm and forced him back down the steps.

"Much as I hate to admit it, I might need you," Jimmy growled, as he shoved Lewis back into the dingy basement, "might need a hostage. First, I've gotta get rid of that pig-shit cop-body. Back you go!"

Lewis was pushed back into the kitchen, and there he saw the gaping trapdoor to his own tiny, private hell-hole.

"Aw, no…!" Lewis held up his hands to protest, but it was no use.

The butt of the gun swung around and connected with his temple with a sickening crack, and Lewis fell into the cold darkness once more.

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Morning shift started early the next day, but for Morse, it had all blurred into one. Yes, he'd been home, but only because he thought better in the comfort of his own home. Then he had felt guilty for being comfortable, because wherever Lewis was, he doubted that his captor, or captors, had comfort in mind for him. And now, Derringer was also officially missing. He had called the duty sergeant into Strange's office for a debriefing. It was not going well for the sergeant.

"So when Derringer came on duty yesterday, he was booked to patrol in a squad car," Strange was saying, "who was he partnered with that day?"

"Bailey, sir," the sergeant, by the name of Craig, had a red flush creeping up his neck to his face, "Bailey had already clocked in, but…"

"But…?" Morse prompted, his voice low and dangerous.

"But he actually, err, hadn't, sir," Craig went on, flustered, "he, ah, he called in sick about an hour after Derringer left. Seems Derringer had clocked him in so it didn't look like he was late for shift."

"Or to cover his own backside," Morse snapped, "he took the squad car out alone, didn't he?"

"It, err, seems so, sir," Craig replied, no longer able to look at either Morse or Strange.

Strange was almost seething with anger.

"So a lone patrol officer took a squad car, went out, and never came back? Are you trying to tell me one of my officers stole a patrol car, and has disappeared with it?"

"It, ah, it seems that way," Craig looked as if he wished the floor would open up and swallow him.

"Well!" Strange flicked his hand, glanced at Morse, and shook his head slowly, "Well. There's not much we can do right now. Mark my words, there will be a full investigation. Right now, we have two missing officers to find. Craig, you're dismissed – but this isn't the last you'll hear of this!"

"Sir," Craig mumbled, and disappeared quickly.

There was a long moment of silence. Strange stared at the desk while Morse stared at Strange.

"I know you've got a theory. Let's hear it."

"Derringer knows whose got Lewis," Morse said, bluntly, "either because he's under duress – which I almost hope he is – because any alternative is unthinkable. He's either gone out to help Lewis, or to prove to be an undoing for either one or both of them."

Strange opened and closed his mouth a few times, but Morse persisted.

"I think Derringer knew the guy who was in the house where the student was killed. He told him to hide, knowing that with a full confession we would just sweep the place and leave. Derringer could then get his… this man… out of there quietly and we'd be none the wiser. Unfortunately, Lewis spotted him and he had to make a break for it. I think Derringer took him to Lewis's house when he took the car back, and I was dumb-fool enough to let him do it!"

"Recriminations later," Strange interrupted, bluntly, "carry on."

"You know what happened when we arrived at Lewis's house. I think either Derringer took the patrol car to confront this man, or worse, to assist him. I've got a couple of PC's going back through Derringer's personnel file and case history to see if anything leaps out."

Strange opened his mouth to comment when there was a sudden pounding on the door and Craig re-entered without waiting to be summoned.

"Sir!" he blurted out, "They've found Derringer's car!"

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Morse drove with almost reckless abandon. Derringer's patrol car had been found by a passing motorist, who had laughed himself silly at the sight of a patrol car sticking out of a ditch on the very outskirts of town. As he drove, More replayed various scenarios and theories in his head. All the time, he kept coming back to the question of who their mysterious man was. What had the man been doing in the house, and why the extreme reaction to being seen there?

He could only guess, but Morse's theory was that the man had possibly been a dealer – dishing out drugs to the students. Clearly he'd done time and feared going back, but who the hell was he, and why couldn't Morse shake the suspicion that there was a hell of a lot more to this than was apparent? He trusted his instincts, and right now, they were screaming at him that something was very wrong with this case, and it was not just because Lewis was missing, presumed… missing, Morse told himself firmly, Lewis was simply missing, and he would be found.

He expertly manoeuvred the Jaguar into a parked position behind the other two squad cars on the scene, both with lights flashing. The now slightly stunned motorist was no longer laughing as he was being grilled by two experienced patrol officers. Morse crossed to the other two, who were examining the car in the ditch.

"Forensics are on their way, sir," one of them reported, from where he stood knee-deep in nettles, "there's… there's blood strains on the boot lid."

"Have you opened it?" Morse could not prevent the revulsion from creeping into his voice. God, how he hated the sight of dead bodies, and if this was… if it was Lewis… he could not finish the thought, let along prepare himself for the sight.

The patrol man seemed to be able to see what he was thinking.

"I'll do it, sir," he said, "the keys are still in the ignition."

He retrieved the keys, and opened the boot. Morse saw the man's face go pale, and he forced himself to move in closer for a look. He saw a white face, a light blue shirt, and a whole lot of blood. He gagged and turned away from the dead staring eyes. Derringer. It was Derringer. Morse headed back to his car, and picked up the radio. He reported in to the desk sergeant, and tried to be gentle in breaking the news of Derringer's death. He asked for an ambulance to be dispatched, and then closed off the radio. For a long moment he stood there, leaning on the hood of his beloved Jaguar, and wondered what the hell to do now. His musing was interrupted by the approach of the constable.

"Sir," he was holding out an envelope which, Morse noticed with distaste, was somewhat marred with blood, "Sir, this was in the boot…"

Morse glanced down at it. His name was scrawled on the front of it, simply "Morse". He knew the patrol man should not have removed it. He knew it should have been photographed by forensics, dusted for prints, tested for saliva, and a lot more extensive wasting of time carried out before he got the chance to read it… he took it wordlessly from the constable. It was not sealed, so he slipped out a piece of plain white paper. His eyes scanned the text quickly.

_Morse. I want to make a deal – the life of Sergeant Lewis in exchange for my freedom. Meet me at his house at 8pm. Come alone. I'm watching. One false move, he dies. _

Morse folded the letter up and slid it back into the envelope. The text was handwritten, little more than a child's scrawl – probably done with the non-dominant hand to prevent handwriting analysis. He tucked it into his jacket pocket.

"Sir?" the patrol man said, cautiously, "That might be evidence…"

"Yes," Morse replied, as he got into his car, "and now I'm taking it to Strange."

The constable had no further chance to comment as the Jaguar swung out of the parking space and disappeared with a roar of the engine.


	5. Chapter 5

Lewis was conscious, and that was the most positive thing that he could think of. He was sitting upright against one of the walls of the cellar. His head throbbed almost rhythmically, and there was blood crusted around his left eye and down the side of his face from the cut on his temple where Jimmy had hit him with the gun. His ribs creased him with pain. Shifting uncomfortably, he could feel the dampness in his shirt from Derringer's blood where it had soaked into his back and shoulder as he'd carried the poor dead man to the boot of his own patrol car. Lewis had a feeling that Derringer had somehow contributed to his current predicament, but still he felt sorry for the young man.

The cellar was bitterly cold, and Lewis found himself shivering uncontrollably. He had completely lost track of how long he had been down there. He figured that it could not be much more than a day, but it seemed like forever. He licked his dry lips, wondering what would happen if he dared to ask for a drink when Jimmy reappeared. He was so very thirsty, but he doubted that Jimmy had much interest in keeping him alive. Jimmy seemed to think he would be a useful bargaining tool, but Lewis had a feeling he would be killed in an instant if his captor's mood changed. The house was silent above him – he did not know if Jimmy was in or out, asleep or on guard. He sat still, and tried to listen for any movement.

Inactivity began to irk him, so Lewis moved to beneath the trap door. Pain, cold and exhaustion had taken their toll and he felt as weak as a kitten. However, he stood beneath the door, and tried to lift it. It didn't give an inch. Bracing one foot on the bottom rung of the makeshift ladder, Lewis pushed harder. This time, he was rewarded with the tiniest shift of the wood. Then, suddenly, there were footsteps above him. With a silent gasp, he jerked away from the door and landed hard on the floor, where he scrambled back into the corner, staring upwards at the floorboards.

"Any noise out of you, you pig-shit bastard, and you're a dead man," growled a voice above him.

Lewis shuddered, wrapping his arms around his aching ribs. He leaned back against the wall, and wondered how long it would be until he was dead.

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Morse did drive back to the station. He knew that as soon as the patrol constable made his report, Strange would know that Morse had purloined a piece of evidence and the whole squad would be sent after him. Sometimes, attack was the best form of defence. Morse parked the Jaguar haphazardly in the station yard and went straight to Strange's office. He went in without knocking. Strange did not seem surprised to see him.

"Come in," he said, unnecessarily, "I take it you've got a lead."

"He wants to see me," Morse said, bluntly, taking the letter from his pocket, "I go alone and unarmed."

Strange scan read the letter quickly.

"I can't let you do that," he said, quietly, "for all we know it's a trap. I can't risk loosing you as well."

"This could be our only choice!" Morse replied, already raising his voice, "This note says Lewis is still alive. I can't – I won't – leave him to the mercy of some psychopath!"

"I think I know who it is," Strange said, so quietly that Morse had to lean forwards to hear him, "and you're not going to like this."

"Who is it?" Morse said, his voice dropping to conversational level once more.

"His name is James McMaster," Strange replied, glancing up at Morse for a response, "better known as 'Jimmy Sliced'. Because he always…"

"…Sliced his victim's throats," Morse finished, slowly, "I've heard of him. A real bastard. I thought they put him away for life."

"They did. He fared well in prison but he wanted out. He turned Queen's evidence on several old friends – busted open two drugs rings and a prostitution racket that stretched from London to Newcastle. In exchange, he got a new ID and parole-free freedom. Looks like he came to Oxford."

"Bastard," Morse sank into a nearby chair, his rage and energy spent, "and it's this sick son of a bitch that's got Lewis?"

"We think so," Strange nodded, and then switched to shaking his head, "get this. Derringer was his half-brother. They had the same mother."

Morse simply shook his head again. It was all too much.

"If this Jimmy was capable of killing his own brother – who was a copper at that – Lewis doesn't stand a chance," Morse said, at last, "Sir – you've got to let me go to this meeting. It's our only chance. I'll tell Jimmy he's got his freedom and our lads pick him up a safe distance from the house. No matter how long he watches the place, he'll soon have to go in. Bring in every man. Surround the area in unmarked cars. Hell, we'll use personal vehicles if we haven't got enough unmarked!"

"Yours is a little too distinctive for that," Strange commented with a wry smile, "Morse, don't make me regret this. You've got nine hours until the meeting time. You've got until then to put this operation together."

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The plan was simple. Morse would arrive at the house just before 8 and go straight inside. There would not be another cop within a five-mile radius. This gave their man any number of escape routes, but each of these would be monitored by an unmarked patrol car. When they had run out of cars, Morse had deployed officers on foot. Eventually, he had run out of officers, so every informant was on the streets with strict instructions and a virtual permit to get away with blue murder for the next ten years if they handed in information leading to the arrest of Jimmy Sliced. Morse counted down the minutes, and hoped against hope that it was enough.

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In the cellar, Lewis smothered a cough, and tried to suppress his shivering. Jimmy had apparently left the kitchen but the light was on above him, filtering through the cracks in the floorboards. By that light, he could see his watch telling him it was 7:10. He assumed that this was night time – he had slept little, fitfully, and the day had crawled by. Each hour he became more tired, cramped and despondent. He had reached the conclusion that he would likely die in the cellar. Dehydration was his second bet, with first place going to a bullet from Jimmy if he so much as sneezed. He figured he had been in the cellar for two days and two nights. His hope of Morse – or anyone else for that matter – finding him here, began to grow dimmer. Two days and two nights. An eternity. He figured he could last maybe another 24 hours before he passed out from dehydration. Suddenly, Jimmy's heavy footsteps returned. Lewis did not respond, even when the trapdoor was hauled open, he simply closed his eyes against the bright light.

"Get up," ordered the harsh voice.

"Sod off," Lewis replied, tiredly.

They were not the best of last words, but Lewis figured at least no-one he cared about was around to hear them.

"Get up you bastard!" snapped Jimmy, "We're going to see your friend Morse, unless you'd rather stay here?"

"He won't negotiate with the likes of you," Lewis replied hoarsely.

"He fucking well will," Jimmy snarled, "now – get up! You'll be dead if you don't – and then I'll hunt down your wife and kids as well."

"You bastard," Lewis growled.

Stiffly, he got to his feet, and painfully climbed out of the cellar. He managed to sit on the edge, but his strength failed and he stayed there, gasping for air, barely able to lift his head.

"Get up!" Jimmy shouted, waving the gun at him, "get up you lazy-arsed pig-shit whore-son bastard!"

For emphasis, he grabbed Lewis's shoulder and hauled him to his knees. Lewis shook his head, too spent to speak.

"Your wife," Jimmy growled, "your kids. I know where you live – where they live. I'll hunt them down. I'll make the kids watch as I rape your wife. Then I'll make your wife watch as I kill the kids – with a knife… slowly. Then I'll…"

He got no further. With an enraged shout, Lewis jumped at him. The gun went skittering to one side across the floor as Jimmy was taken by surprise. This did not last long. Lewis was cold, stiff, tired, and concussed. Jimmy was in peak form. With a loud bellow and a heavy backhanded blow, Jimmy sent Lewis crashing into a wall. He was then upon him, landing a couple of heavy punches and kicks for good measure.

"I should cut your throat for that!" Jimmy hissed, wiping blood from the split lip where Lewis had hit him, "bastard!"

Dazed and winded, Lewis simply sat on the floor, waiting for the killing blow to come. It did not. Instead, he felt Jimmy lift him up roughly, and he was half-dragged, half-carried out of the basement flat. He heard the click of a car as it unlocked, and groaned quietly as he heard the boot open.

_Not again…_

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Morse arrived, and the house was in darkness. He glanced at the front door, sadly. He had been here several times before, and two or three of them had even been socially. It was the only insight he ever really got into what it might have been like to raise a family, and to him it seemed to be a kind of barely controlled chaos through which Lewis strode easily while Morse floundered in the confusion of the children's excited shouts and the attempts at conversation from Val. Every time he had visited, though, the house was tidy, warm and welcoming. Now, it stood there, dark and almost foreboding. There was no sign of movement from within, but Morse was taking no chances after last time.

Slowly, he approached the front door. He resisted the urge to knock, and simply took the key from his pocket and opened the door. He stepped inside, and pushed it closed quietly, taking care to leave the latch off to allow him some small hope of an escape route. He took a deep breath.

"It's Morse," he said, in a controlled, calm voice, "I'm alone and unarmed. Is there anyone here?"

"Kitchen," growled a voice, "no tricks."

Morse walked slowly passed the stairs, and stepped into the kitchen, with his hands raised and his heart pounding in his chest. He entered the kitchen, which was in darkness. Only a shaft of moonlight from the kitchen gave the place an inkling of light. As Morse's eyes adjusted, he could see two figures by the back door – one on his knees, hunched over – the other standing, tall and confident. The standing figure had an arm outstretched, and it did not take a genius to figure out that this was Jimmy and Lewis, and the former held a gun to the latter's head. Neither of them moved for a long moment. Then, Jimmy reached up and flicked on a light switch by the back door, and flooded the kitchen with light.

Instinctively, Morse raised a hand to protect his eyes from the sudden glare, but then lowered it. Jimmy stood before him, his face obscured by a plain black balaclava. He held a gun in his right hand, pointed unwaveringly at the back of Lewis's head. Morse glanced down at his sergeant, and felt a knot of sympathy forming in his throat. Lewis met his eyes for a brief moment, but a heavy nudge from the gun forced his head down again. Morse swallowed, hard. Lewis's shirt was covered in blood, and he bore the marks of a heavy beating. Morse looked up and met Jimmy's gaze.

"I don't know who you are," he said, half-truthfully, "But if you let him go, you can leave here. There aren't any cops within a 5-mile radius, I saw to that."

"So the minute I leave here, one of your patrols picks me up?" Jimmy laughed, "No way. I asked you here for a particular reason, Mr Morse."

"And what was that?" Morse asked, evenly, all hope of this operation going smoothly quickly disappearing.

"This hostage," Jimmy replied, giving Lewis a cruel kick in the ribs, as he raised his gun to point at Morse, "he's on his last legs. I need another one… a more valuable one."

"Take my advice," Morse replied, keeping his voice calm, "leave us and get out of here. There isn't another copper within 5 miles – we haven't the resources to cover an area that wide. There's no way we could find you – we don't even know what you look like!"

"He does!" Jimmy snapped the gun back down to Lewis, "This bastard has seen my face! Did you really think I was going to let him live?"

Jimmy grabbed Lewis by the collar and hauled him upright. Lewis staggered and fell against the kitchen sink for support, but Jimmy pulled him back again.

"Come here, you bastard!"

Then, it seemed to Morse, that the world imploded.


	6. Chapter 6

In the darkness, Morse got to his feet and tried to piece together what had happened. As he stood up, glass crunched beneath his shoes, from the broken light bulb. As his thoughts calmed, he realised what had happened. As Jimmy had pulled Lewis back from the sink, Morse had seen Lewis turn and lunge, forcing the gun high, where it had gone off, and blown apart the light. Morse hit the floor, showered by the glass, while there had been a brief struggle. The gun had gone off a second time, and the fight was over.

Now, Morse quickly went to the hall, and switched on the light, which cast a dim glow into the kitchen. He could see Lewis, slumped on the floor, head in hands. Nearby, he could see Jimmy in profile, a bullet hole blown into his chest, the gun still in his own hand. Morse swallowed his revulsion, and hesitantly, gently laid his hand on Lewis's shoulder. He took a deep breath, able to feel the younger man trembling.

"Lewis?" Morse said, but his voice caught in his throat.

He cleared his throat and knelt down next to his sergeant.

"Robbie, look at me."

Slowly, Lewis raised his head, and in the light cast from the hall, Morse caught sight of the blood and bruises that marred his face.

"Robbie," Morse kept his voice soft, "I need to know – how much of this blood is yours?"

Lewis glanced down at his shirt as if seeing it for the first time. He looked at Morse in confusion, and turned to look at the body on the kitchen floor.

"No," Morse said, firmly, "look at me, Robbie. Is this yours?"

"Derringer's," Lewis whispered, hoarsely, his voice pained, "it's Derringer…he's…he's dead…"

"I know," Morse shushed him, "come on – let's get you somewhere more comfortable…"

Morse eased Lewis's arm over his shoulder and lifted him up, helping him through to the living room, where he got the Sergeant to lie down on the couch. Lewis lay there, barely conscious, and Morse was loathe to go out to the car to use his radio. Instead, he picked up the telephone and dialled 999.

"Chief Inspector Morse," he barked, at the operator, rattling off his badge number, "Get an ambulance out to this address…"

Satisfied that the urgency of the situation had been properly conveyed, Morse stood over the couch for a moment. There was a hand-knitted blanket discarded on a nearby chair, so Morse picked it up and spread it over Lewis in an attempt to stop him shivering. There was so much blood – clearly some of it belonged to Lewis, but Morse could not comprehend what the younger man must have been through to have ended up in this state. Lewis muttered something under his breath, and coughed harshly.

"Robbie?" Morse leaned in closer.

"P…please," Lewis groaned, "water…?"

Morse straightened up quickly. He had no desire to go back into the kitchen, with its grisly, dark scene, but concern won out. He went in, grabbed a glass from the worktop, and filled it quickly from the tap. He carried it through, and helped Lewis take a drink.

"Just sip it for now," Morse warned him, careful not to let him choke, "Robbie – what happened? Where the hell were you?"

"D…don't know," Lewis shook his head, slightly, and hissed in pain, "he… he threat…threatened… Val and the kids…the _bastard_…"

"Okay, Robbie, it's okay," Morse patted Lewis's shoulder gently, as he perched beside him on the edge of the couch, "he's not going to hurt anyone else. There's an ambulance on the way."

"Val? Where's our Val?"

"She's safe, Robbie, remember? She's in Gateshead, with the kids."

"Thank…thank God…"

Lewis shuddered under the blanket, and then went limp. Morse leaned forward, worriedly, clasping Lewis's shoulders.

"Robbie?" Morse gave the sergeant a gentle shake, "Lewis, wake up! Come on, you've got to stay with me…"

There was no response. Morse, hesitantly, reached out and checked for a pulse. He had to check again, but he found it, weak and irregular.

"Christ almighty," Morse murmured.

It seemed Lewis had been beaten to within an inch of his life. Morse was relieved to hear the wail of an approaching siren. He quickly got to his feet, straightened his tie, and went to the front door, waving in the two paramedics.

"Through there, on the sofa," he pointed.

Two squad cars pulled up alongside the ambulance and four officers scrambled out.

"Body in the kitchen," Morse snapped, quickly, and stepped back through into the lounge, almost crashing into one of the paramedics, who mumbled an apology and headed back towards the ambulance.

Morse stood behind the other paramedic, who was attempting to bring Lewis back to consciousness. The medic spared Morse a fleeting glance, and turned his attention back to his patient.

"What's his name?" the medic asked.

"Sergeant Lewis. Robbie Lewis," Morse corrected himself, "how is he?"

"He seems in a bad way," the medic shook his head, "there's a lot of blood."

"It's… it's not all his," Morse said, "at least, I don't think it is."

"What happened to him?"

"I don't know," Morse said, folding his arms, "he was held hostage. I was hoping he'd be able to tell us."

"Any next of kin?"

"His wife is away. You'll report to me directly."

"Aye sir."

The other paramedic returned with a gurney, and the two of them gently lifted the unconscious Lewis onto the stretcher. Morse followed them out to the ambulance. One of the constables tried to ask a question, but Morse brushed him off and climbed in the back of the ambulance. The sirens screamed to life, and it sped off into the night.

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A corridor, a hard plastic chair and a vending machine… This was what Morse's world had become. Nurses, doctors, patients and visitors swept passed him, ignoring the tired, white-haired, rumpled man who was sitting in a hard plastic chair drinking stale hot something from the vending machine. Eventually, he was joined by another man.

"Evening, sir," Morse said, at length.

"So you found him, then," Strange responded.

"No," Morse replied, "we'd never have found him if McMaster hadn't broken cover. It was McMaster, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Strange nodded, "do you want to tell me how he ended up with a kitchen knife in his ribs?"

There was no accusation in the tone, no anger or malice, only a calm, unspoken reassurance that things would be sorted out. Morse sighed, and rubbed a hand over his face.

"McMaster didn't want to negotiate," Morse said, staring up at the ceiling, "he wanted me as a hostage instead of Lewis. He was going to shoot Lewis and take me. He'd threatened Lewis as well – said he was going to find Val and the kids."

"So what happened?"

Morse shrugged.

"I don't rightly know how he did it," he replied, distantly, "Lewis – I thought he was all done in, but… he forced the gun up – it went off – it was self defence, sir."

"I know," Strange nodded, slowly, "you'll need to make a statement."

"Not now," Morse said, quietly.

He sipped at his hot drink, still uncertain as to whether it was tea, coffee, hot chocolate or some kind of soup. It was possibly a combination of all four. Strange made a few attempts at small talk, tried to make Morse go home, and promised to try to contact Lewis's wife. Strange left, and Morse went back to his hot-something-drinking trance.

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"Mr Morse?"

A voice penetrated his sleep-deprived brain. Morse blinked, yawned, stretched, and gazed blearily up at a man in a white coat who looked as tired as Morse felt.

"Morse," he replied, "it's just Morse. And you are…?"

"I'm Dr Milton," the man said, "you were waiting for some news on Mr Lewis?"

"Yes," Morse stood up expectantly.

"This way, please."

Dr Milton led Morse down some identical corridors until he was thoroughly lost, and ushered him into a side room. The lights were dimmed, but Morse could clearly make out the room. Lewis lay on the only bed, surrounded by machines and monitors. Morse could see the bruises on his face, as well as stark white bandages around his head and right wrist.

"Is he awake?" Morse asked, softly.

"No," Milton shook his head, "he hasn't regained consciousness since he came in."

"How bad is it?" Morse queried, not taking his eyes off the still form on the bed.

"Where do I start?" Milton sighed, "He's got several broken ribs, two broken fingers and a badly sprained wrist. He's had one hell of a beating – multiple contusions, a deep laceration to the temple and concussion to boot. There are abrasions around his wrists that suggest he was tied up, and he's malnourished, dehydrated and hypothermic. He's developed a secondary infection in his lungs as well, and he's feverish. What happened to him?"

"I don't know," Morse said, truthfully, "I almost don't want to know…"

"Sit with him awhile," Milton suggested, indicating a nearby armchair, "I'll be back to check on him every hour, but if anything happens, hit the panic button."

Morse murmured his thanks as the doctor slipped quietly out of the room. Morse stood in silence for a long moment, listening to the soft beeping of machinery. An IV tube snaked from a tall pole into the back of Lewis's left hand, and, careful not to disturb it, Morse pulled the armchair up to the right-hand side of the bed. He sat down and gazed at his sergeant. Lewis had been there for him every time he needed help or support, even if he hadn't asked for it or admitted it at the time. Why, then, had he not been able to help his sergeant in his hour of need?

Leaning back in the armchair, Morse felt hollow. He should have been glad to find that Lewis was alive, and he was, but it was a bitter pill to swallow to see him in this state. Even unconscious, Morse could see the pain on Lewis's face, and the bruises stood out darkly on his pale skin. Morse sighed, and rubbed a hand across his eyes. On the bedside table, someone had left a newspaper. Morse picked it up, took a pen from his pocket, and set to work on the crosswords.

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Morse groaned, shifted uncomfortably, and blinked slowly, trying to remember where he was. He groaned again to realise that he'd fallen asleep in the armchair, and he stretched, feeling his spine click in protest in several places. He reflected that he really could do with a shower and a decent cup of tea. Then, his eyes fell on the bed, and he had to suppress the urge to grin. Lewis was looking up at him with an expression of vague confusion.

"Hey," Morse said, "how are you feeling?"

Lewis blinked a couple of times, glancing down at the IV tube and the bandages around his wrist and his strapped fingers. Then he looked back at Morse.

"You look terrible," he commented, his voice little more than a croak.

Morse let out a bark of a laugh, and picked up a cup of water from the bedside table, holding it out. Lewis took it in his left hand, and, shakily, managed to take a drink. Morse rescued the cup before it had a chance to spill, as Lewis fell back on the pillow, energy spent.

"What happened?" he asked, quietly, at last.

Morse recounted what little he knew, and then listened as Lewis haltingly talked through everything that he could remember. Eventually, Morse held up his hand.

"Enough," he said, "You get some sleep. Don't worry about Val and the kids – as soon as they get back we're going to put them up in a safe house. They'll be fine."

"Thanks," Lewis whispered, as he drifted back off to sleep, "as long as they're okay…"

Morse waited until the sergeant was asleep again, before he went out to make his report, promising himself he would be back as soon as he could.

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A week later, Morse collected Lewis from the hospital, with Val in tow. The bruises had faded a little and he looked slightly less gaunt, but the young man moved slowly and his face was still pale. Still, he seemed pleased to be out of the hospital. Morse gallantly held the back door of his Jaguar open to allow Val to get in, before he climbed into the driving seat.

"I guess we're in temporary housing for a while," Lewis sighed, as they drove, "you were saying you wanted a bigger place for the kids, love – looks like we'll be moving after all."

"I'm sure we'll find something," Val replied, optimistically.

Morse nodded slowly, letting them make small talk. He had kept details of all that had happened that night to himself. Lewis could not clearly remember everything, and Morse did not seen fit to enlighten him. Still, it was hard to gloss over what had happened in full, and Lewis was understandably reluctant to take his family back to the home where he had been abducted, assaulted and where a man had died.

"Morse has been very kind," Val was saying to her husband, "we've been staying in a very nice three-bed semi."

Lewis merely spared his boss a small smile, and Morse caught the expression from the corner of his eye. He cleared his throat, briskly.

"I don't know what you're grinning at, sergeant," he said, lightly, "the paperwork is piling up at the office for you, and you owe me a drink."

"Aye, sir," Lewis was still smiling as he leaned back in the seat, and closed his eyes.

They drove in silence for a while. Eventually, Lewis stirred slightly, looking a bit sheepish at having dozed off.

"Where are we going?" he asked, sleepily.

"Not far now, love," Val replied, reassuringly.

A few minutes later, Morse's Jaguar pulled into the driveway of a neat, semi-detached house. Lewis was surprised, and pleased, to find his car was also parked on the drive, though he had to suppress a shudder as he recalled travelling in its boot. A little unsteadily, he climbed out of the car, and stood for a moment to regain his balance. There was a steadying hand on his elbow, and he glanced down into the eyes of Val. He tried to give her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, despite the weakness he felt.

"Well, this is nice, isn't it?" he commented, trying to keep tiredness out of his voice.

As if on cue, the front door opened, and his son and daughter came flying out, followed by one of the WPC's from the station.

"Daddy!" screamed his son.

"Kids, no! Be careful!" Val called, but it was too late.

They collided excitedly with their father, who was so pleased to see them that he swept them both up in an embrace. Val managed to prise them away and usher them back inside as Lewis leaned against his car, gasping slightly.

"Will you join us for a drink, sir?" the sergeant said, quickly pulling himself upright when he saw Morse watching him, "I'm sure Val's got beer in the cupboard."

Morse hesitated slightly. He was fairly sure that Lewis just wanted to rest and that he and Val would want some peace and quiet. Lewis, however, was having none of it, and was already calling to Val to get out some beer. She was shouting at him that he wasn't allowed any, and one of the kids had started crying and was being comforted by the WPC. There was a tug on his sleeve, and Morse glanced down to find the little girl, Lynn, was looking up at him.

"Mummy says to come inside and close the door 'cos it's getting cold," she said, authoritatively.

With a wordless shrug, Morse followed her inside. After all they had been through, a beer would be just what he needed.

"Will you join us for dinner, Morse?" Val smiled at him as she pulled her son off Lewis as she ushered her husband onto the couch in the living room.

"Well, I…"

"Great!" Val said, brightly, without really waiting for the response, "I hope you like roast beef. Kids! Give your father some space, will you? Would you like a beer? Robbie, sit down before you fall down! A beer?"

"Err, yes, please," Morse replied.

At a loss, he allowed Val to shepherd him into the living room, where he was nudged into a very comfortable armchair, and a beer appeared in his hand. Confused, he sat there for a moment, and then took a mouthful of the beer. Lewis was sitting on the couch, clearly exhausted.

"You've been signed off for two weeks medical leave," Morse informed him, "Strange has given you and your family the use of this house for as long as you need it."

Lewis gaped at him for a moment, and then nodded.

"Thank you, sir," he said, at last, "and… thanks. For coming after me."

"You were the one who saved both our lives," Morse pointed out, bluntly.

"But if you hadn't come to the house…" Lewis shook his head, unable to continue.

Morse waved his hand dismissively. For a long moment, they sat quietly.

"Thanks, though," the Geordie sergeant said, sleepily.

Morse smiled as Lewis began to nod off on the couch.

"And you," he murmured.

Sitting in the armchair in a borrowed house and sipping at a beer which his sergeant slept on the couch, Morse reflected that, all in all, things had turned out well in the end.

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End file.
